Consumer Guide:Edges of the Groove

Arguments against education, reclaimed punk rants, electropop with staying power

BROTHER ALI: Shadows on the Sun (Rhymesayers Entertainment)
The voice is anxious--sometimes shrill, sometimes defiant, strong and
articulate either way. The beats are soul-simple, not hooky enough for
radio or dull enough for old-school. The rhymes are proud, thoughtful,
searching, candid, angry, observed. Because Ali is married, he avoids
nerd-rap's itchy dick syndrome. Because he's an albino, he knows extra
about difference. Because he's a serious Muslim, he's a serious
moralist. Because he's a good guy, he's not self-righteous or
judgmental. Two of his best songs are about fights. In the funny one
he ends up with a bloody eye and a split bicuspid. In the indignant
one he clocks a woman-beater and gets arrested. A MINUS

THE GUITAR AND GUN (Stern's/Earthworks)
Cut at the same time in the same studio during Ghana's chaotic early
'80s, this CD condenses two old LPs but functions as a follow-up to
the brave, sunny Electric Highlife comp Naxos World released in
2002. Maybe the music feels slighter and less captivating because it
gives equal time to what producer and Afropop chronicler John Collins
calls "gospel highlife," created by church-based ensembles whose
amateurism is even more palpable than in the "concert party" and
"cultural" strains. The only repeater is the most professional, and
the best: F. Kenya's Guitar Band, whose four tracks here (and three
there) combine loping beats, a lead voice of undeniable presence and
indefinable key, and high little guitar figures scuttling along the
edges of the groove. A MINUS

NELLIE MCKAY: Get Away From Me (Columbia)
Hidden smack in the middle of each of these two nine-track CDs are two
forgettable songs, leaving 16 of 18 that are memorable melodically,
lyrically, or both, which would be an accomplishment for Randy Newman
himself. Not counting Stephin Merritt, no other under-40 approaches
McKay's gift for cabaret. The worst you can say is that her satire is
shallow--dissing yuppies in the '00s is the precise terminological
equivalent of dissing hippies in the '80s. But "Work Song" (bosses),
"Inner Peace" (New Ageism), "It's a Pose" ("God you went to
Oxford/Head still in your boxers") feel something like classic, and
personal notes like the fond "Manhattan Avenue" and the fonder "Dog
Song" suggest that soon her egomania will yield emotional complexities
worthy of her talent. A MINUS

MEKONS: Punk Rock (Quarterstick)
Periodizing their history for fun and mainly profit on their 2002
tour, the Mekons who could remember back that far--namely, trouper
Jonboy Langford and sufferer Tom Greenhalgh--relearned the punk rants
that set the stage for their transition to faux country. These aren't
indelible tunes like "At Home He's a Tourist" or "Suspect Device."
But months later they're still getting not just stronger but rawer,
which isn't how this game usually works. One comparison is the
eponymous hardcore album Rancid dropped in 2000 when ska felt played
out, but this is sharper and more varied. Who could not love how "32
Weeks," in which Rico Bell I think it is bellows out how much time it
takes to earn the price of a car, a mattress, a bottle of whiskey,
leads to "Work All Week," in which Jonboy promises his beloved gold
itself? A MINUS

THE MOUNTAIN GOATS: We Shall All Be Healed (4AD)
Inexhaustible wordslinger, belated bandleader, John Darnielle submits
a singer's record. He enunciates so forcefully that any verbal
incoherence is your fault, projects so loudly it takes months to
notice his backup musicians. This is a record whose idea of poetry is
"That's good we can always use more electrical equipment," "I eat a
couple of Milky Ways for breakfast," and "Get in the goddamn car."
Nothing begins-middles-and-ends like "No Children" or "International
Small Arms Traffic Blues" because speed freaks tweaking from one
meaningless activity to the next don't generate much narrative
logic. Every character is a loser or fuckup whose future is no bleaker
than that of the planet we all inhabit. They aren't redeemed by
Darnielle's love because he doesn't love a one of them. But they are
redeemed by his interest, in them and in the planet we all
inhabit. And whenever he flags a little, they're also redeemed by his
backup musicians. A

THE POSTAL SERVICE: Give Up (Sub Pop)
Dinky where Death Cab for Cutie are merely wimpy, the Benjamin
Gibbard-Jimmy Tamborello collab could be designed to put off not just
red-blooded testosterone addicts but anyone who thinks music has to
feign strength to make itself felt. What it does instead is display
staying power. Tunes whose catchiness seemed annoying prove lovely;
tunes whose quietude seemed wan prove catchy. Gibbard's delicate voice
matches the subtle electro arrangements far more precisely than it
does the folky guitars of his real group, and no longer does he
express himself in word clusters or dream-state imagery. A female
principle keeps giving him what for--in the background, Rilo Kiley's
Jenny Lewis, and up front on the album's centerpiece, Jen Wood--and he
needs her too much to mince metaphors. A MINUS

OUMOU SANGARE: Oumou (World Circuit/Nonesuch)
A bit of a cheat, interspersing six songs from a Mali-only cassette
deemed internationally unviable in 2001 with a dozen from the '90s
albums that made her a legend if not a superstar. Nor are the
newcomers quite up to quality--the best is a trip-hop remix. But
whether colored by full orchestra or sour old indigenous violin, each
one fits right in, and the sequencing is so deft that this two-CD set
is the Oumou album to define what organic feminism sounds
like. A

SUPER MAMA DJOMBO (Cobiana)
From tiny Guinea-Bissau--formerly
Portuguese Guinea, wedged between Senegal and Guinea proper, independent
since 1974, population well under a million then and well over a million
now--came a band that lasted a decade, even played one of Fidel's Havana youth
conferences, but recorded only once, leaving six hours of master tape in
Lisbon in 1980. Where the music of nearby Cabo Verde is dominated by mestizo
variants on Portuguese fado, Guinea-Bissau had few white settlers, and if
Super Mama Djombo recall anyone as they mix and match across West Africa,
it's early Orchestra Baobab, hold the salsa. Soukous and highlife echo in
the guitars, and the notes suggest that these songs in many languages--six
tribal tongues in addition to the urban Kriol they favored--needed to be sung.
Take for instance the title of the post-independence "Dissan Na M'bera,"
which means, the notes say, "'Let me walk on the side of the road'--don't
run me over with a state car." A MINUS

KANYE WEST: The College Dropout (Roc-A-Fella)
What is the fuss about his contradictions? The main difference
between him and most hip hop journalists is his money. They'd buy the
Benz--so would I, Volvos don't last as long--and probably the gold
too. They'd say anything to get laid. They accept the economic
rationale of dealing and dig music of dubious moral value. Yet at the
same time they do their bit for racial righteousness and know full
well how much they need the "single black female addicted to retail."
On Easter Sunday, some of them even believe in Jesus Christ. But none
of them are as clever or as funny as Kanye West, and these days I'm
not so sure about Eminem either. West came up as a beatmaster, but his
Alicia Keys and Talib Kweli hits are pretty bland, and neither his
voice nor his flow could lead anyone into sin. So he'd better
conceptualize, and he does. Not only does he create a unique role
model, that role model is dangerous--his arguments against education
are as market-targeted as other rappers' arguments for thug
life. Don't do what he says, kids, and don't do what he does, because
you can't. Just stay in school. Really. I mean it. A

Dud of the Month

JOSS STONE: The Soul Sessions (S-Curve)
Sounds like a well-brought-up twentysomething with a sharp band who
writes forgettable originals and smothers covers in irrelevant shows
of emotion, as on the endless and supposedly climactic Isleys'
chestnut "For the Love of You." But as we all now know, there's a
backstory. Band, check--Miami legends like Little Beaver and Timmy
Thomas, with Miami legend Betty Wright calling the shots. But Stone
isn't from Florida, she's from England, and the forgettables are
covers too--the kind of soul marginalia Brits have been overrating
since Doris Troy was on Apple. She's only 16, which explains the
failed climax. And upon reflection she's not so well brought up, else
why trade in Aretha's distinct melody for "All the King's Horses" on
soul clichés? Norah Jones is herself, give her that. I hate to think
what this phenom will have to go through to get that
far. C PLUS